Plastic Smile
by Nyx Raisa
Summary: Miz is attacked in the parking garage after a show. What is the motivation for this act? And how does John cope? WIP
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: this story contains physical violence, swearing, slashy overtones. Also, I'm not a doctor; all my medical knowledge comes from four and a half seasons of House, M.D. and Wikipedia. If anything is grossly inaccurate, let me know and I will fix it (as long as it doesn't ruin my story).

Miz walked out of the arena feeling on top of the world. For the first time in a long time, everything in his life seemed to be perfect. No, strike that. Everything _was_ perfect.

He was living his dream of being a wrestler in the WWE, something he'd wanted to do since he was ten years old. And not just any two-bit half-assed wrestler, no. He was on RAW, rubbing elbows with some seriously big names. Literally in some cases. He was on the mic live every week, which was more than a lot of other wrestlers could say.

Not to mention the perks that the celebrity life afforded him. Money, travel, fans (not very many, but still, he had them) and the ability to be around more gorgeous, shirtless men that you could shake a stick at.

Although when one was dating John Cena, there was only one shirtless man that had his attention day in and day out.

Miz couldn't help smiling at the thought of John. He really had no idea how he lucked out with that. But he wasn't complaining. Not in the slightest. John loved him (for whatever reason that might be), and it would be absolutely foolish to question why the Fates, or God, or Whoever had been so gracious as to dump this amazing, funny, kind, and unbelievably sexy man in his lap.

He glanced at his watch as he walked across the parking garage towards his rental car. 8:30 PM. John was meeting him at a nearby bar for drinks at 9; he needed to hurry. They were originally going take Miz's car, but Miz had a meeting with the execs at the last minute and told John just to go ahead without him. Since he was gone when Miz had gotten out, he assumed John had taken a cab.

About halfway across the parking garage, Miz noticed his footsteps seemed to be echoing strangely. Obviously, being in a parking garage, an echo was not in the least bit odd or unexpected. But something about this echo just seemed… off.

Miz paused, to see if it was him making the disconcerting echo or someone else in another part of the garage being carried over by a trick of sound or hearing. The footsteps continued.

He felt an edge of fear; something didn't seem right about this. He wasn't afraid of being mugged; he was confident he could fight off any would-be attacker. But something just… felt wrong. No one else was in this part of the parking garage, and most of the other Superstars had left. He'd only seen a few people milling about after his meeting. And his rental was the only car in this area. He quickened his pace.

A tall figure stepped out from the side of one of the concrete pillars. While he was shrouded in shadow, Miz had a pretty good idea of who it was.

"You scared the hell out of me, man. What's up?"

No response.

"Uh… okay then."

Miz tried to sidle past the eerily silent man and continue on his way, but the man reached out and grabbed a handful of his shirt, and then threw him roughly into the concrete pillar. His head hit with a resounding crack.

"What the fuck was that for!" he yelled at the man, rubbing the back of his head with one hand.

Still no response.

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you? Asshole!"

Quick footsteps in answer; was someone coming to restrain this jackass? Or arrest him?

Two more men appeared out of the shadows and moved to flank the first man.

Oh, shit. This was bad. This was really bad. Miz could hold his own against one man, maybe two. Three? Three was pushing it.

Flimsy words like "Maybe we can talk it over?" rose to his lips, but he didn't dare voice them. Something was very wrong here. He had no idea what he had done – or what they thought he had done – to any one of these men.

They descended on him.

He tried to fight back, but there was really no chance. He managed to get out a few good punches; he was pretty sure he gave one a black eye. But it wasn't enough. Punches rained down on his unprotected body and he stopped trying to fight and went into survival mode. He sunk down to his knees, trying to protect himself. Kicks dug into his unprotected sides, on his back, into his legs.

Finally, eventually, the onslaught stopped. With every breath, a sharp pain lanced his side. It felt like every inch of his body was bruised. One of his eyes was swelled shut. None of this made any sense. What had he done to them? Why were they doing this?

One of them – the first one, although Miz could not be completely sure in the dark with one eye – crouched over him and grabbed his head in both hands.

"Can you see me? Are you paying attention?" The first words spoken. Miz could only nod dumbly. He could taste blood.

The man leaned closer to Miz until their noses were nearly touching. He tried to pull away from the cold insanity he could see in the other man's eyes, but he was held tightly. Nowhere to go.

The other man spoke two words, softly, staring into Miz's eyes.

"He's mine."

Then he slammed Miz's head into the concrete floor.

A bright light flashed behind Miz's eyelids, quickly spiraling into darkness. He went limp.

Unable to contain himself, the other man slammed the now unconscious man's head down again. A third time.

A hand landed on his shoulder; he turned around jerkily to look at the owner, so presumptuous to try to touch him.

"Don't kill him, man."

He stood up slowly; his blood was rushing, but he could understand that killing him, as much as he wanted to, was a bad idea. Unable to help himself, he gave the man one last kick in the ribs before he walked away.

~*~

John glanced at his watch for the fifth time in twenty minutes. 9:36 now. Mike was supposed to meet him here over a half hour ago. The meeting shouldn't have taken this long; it was only supposed to be a quick discussion on storylines. Maybe Mike wasn't the most punctual person on the planet, but a half hour late was bad even for him. Especially since he hadn't called.

His cell phone was on the counter, but he had resisted the urge to call. He didn't want to seem clingy. Maybe he was lost. Or maybe that meeting really did go on longer than both of them thought it would. Ten more minutes, he thought. I'll give him ten more minutes and then I'll call.

He'd ordered a beer, but had only drunk half of it. His stomach was in knots, and the alcohol sat heavily.

The phone sat on the bar, and he watched it count off the minutes.

9:37.

9:38.

9:39.

9:40.

He took another sip of beer. It tasted terrible.

9:41.

9:42.

9:43.

9:44.

Unable to wait any longer, desperate to hear the other man's voice telling him he was alright, he grabbed his phone off the bar and was about to speed-dial his lover.

The phone started to ring. Mike. Thank Jesus.

"I was just about to call you, man. I was starting to worry."

"Is this John Cena?" a disconcertingly female voice answered.

John felt his stomach clench.

"This is John. Where's Mike?"

"Michael Mizanin is en route to Mercy Medical. He was found badly beaten in a parking garage nearby. This number was listed as an emergency contact in his wallet."

"Mercy Medical?" John asked through numb lips.

"Do you need directions?"  
"I'll take a cab. Can you tell me anything else about his condition?"

"It's best if you talk to his doctor directly."

Slowly, carefully, he closed his phone. His hands felt huge and clumsy and he was afraid he would break the tiny device. He paid his tab, a grand total of one beer. He asked the bartender to call him a cab. The bartender looked closely at him, but didn't question. That was good. John had no idea what he would have said. He couldn't imagine what he looked like. He felt pale. No, worse than that; he felt transparent. Like he was holding his skin together by pure force of will.

_Badly beaten… parking garage… Mercy Medical…._

These things echoed through his mind. Nothing else got through. Nothing else was important.

His cab showed up quicker than he expected, thankfully. He told the cabbie, "Mercy Medical," his own voice sounding distant, like his mouth was a mile away from his ears.

The drive seemed a blur. He could focus on nothing outside of the window, could hear nothing the cab driver said, could not hear the radio. His mind was white noise. Or maybe that was just his pounding heart. All he could hear were the words the female on the phone had spoken.

_Badly beaten… parking garage… Mercy Medical._

Finally, thankfully, he arrived at the hospital. Hoping to god no one recognized him, or would at least attempt to use their powers of discretion, he spoke to the receptionist.

"Michael Mizanin?"

She typed the name into the computer.

"He's just going into surgery. You can wait over there."

"Surgery? What for?"

She glanced up at him, saw whatever it was on his face (probably blind panic) and read what was on the screen.

"It's best you talk to his doctor when he gets out of surgery."

John didn't even attempt further conversation. He just nodded and still feeling transparent, sat down in an uncomfortable hospital chair, and began the wait.

An hour later, maybe two, but definitely an eternity passed before John heard the female receptionist call his name. He shot up out of his chair.

"Mr. Mizanin is being held in room 204. You can speak to his doctor there. The elevator is just around that corner." She pointed.

"Can't you tell me anything about his condition?" he couldn't keep the begging note out of his voice. She looked at the computer.

"He's listed as critical."

He nodded and tried not to look like he was running towards the elevator. It didn't take long to get there and he spent the brief ride trying not to think of all the ways an elevator was similar to a coffin.

Fortunately room 204 was only a little ways down the hall and he found it with no troubles.

A young doctor was perusing a chart outside the door and speaking quietly to a nurse.

John felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest, or just burst in general, if no one told him anything. He was going to tear this place apart with his bare hands if he had to.

"Mike… can I see him? Please?" His voice cracked on the last words and he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

The doctor looked at him consolingly and held out his hand.

"Dr. Havelock. I worked on him in surgery. Are you a friend of his?"

"Yes." John chose not to elaborate.

"Has anyone told you anything?"

"No! They told me he was found beaten, and that he's critical, can you please tell me what happened?"

The doctor put a hand on John's shoulder and led him further down the hall.

"Let's talk over here before you see him."

John allowed himself to be led. The doctor sat him in another one of those uncomfortable chairs and took one next to him. If he craned his neck, he could see Mike's room.

"He was found unconscious and badly beaten in the Staples arena parking garage. He has suffered numerous contusions, two broken ribs, and several other fractures. He had some internal bleeding, but we were able to control that. There is one thing that I must make very clear to you. His skull was fractured and there was some swelling in his brain. We took care of that too, but no one can say for sure how much damage may have been incurred in the time before we were able to relieve it."

John tried to slog through all of this information. Fractures and contusions were fine, just another day at wrestling, but… but brain damage?

"What kind of brain damage?"

"We won't know for sure until he wakes up. He's in a medically-induced coma for the time being."

John was at a loss for words. The doctor eyed him sympathetically, but John ignored it. This man dealt with death and dying every day. His sympathy was the same thing as John's Cenation cap. Costume.

"Can I go see him now, please?" He asked hoarsely.

The doctor nodded.

His legs felt leaden on the trip down the hallway. The doctor's words drifted around his head. Especially "brain damage".

Brain damage.

He opened the door marked 204.

Mike was lying in a hospital bed, slightly tilted up. Wires and tubes of all kinds were attached to him in various places. Two IVs, one red, one clear were feeding into his arm. A tube ran under his nose, giving him oxygen. Whooshes, whirrs, and assorted beeps were the only noises.

Slowly he walked over to the bedside, trying to process what he was seeing.

Mike's head was almost completely covered in white bandage. One eye was purple and swollen, the other was normal. Several cuts, some shallow, some deep covered his face and arms. A butterfly bandage was across his nose; it was probably broken.

John sat down next to him, not even feeling the hard plastic seat this time. He wrapped his hand around Mike's lax one, nothing with some pride the scraped and reddened knuckles.

"You tried, baby, I give you that." He could hear his breaking point in his voice, the words were broken and wavery.

_Brain damage._

Unable to hold back anymore, he laid his head on the bed next to Mike and sobbed.


	2. Struggle

Notes: Hi there! Thank you everyone for your comments, they are much appreciated! Here is chapter 2. Warnings include... swearing, complete lack of medical knowledge, slashy undertones, weird writing. I don't own them, although I wouldn't mind borrowing Miz for a while... Anyways... enjoy!

The next several days passed in a haze for John; he drove to the nearby hotel, he slept, he showered, he ate. He spoke to Vince, to his friends, to Mike's friends, to Mike's family. But throughout most of it, he felt outside himself. Going through the motions, and watching them from the outside. It was like being full of fog, of smoke. He wasn't really _there_.

He only felt truly himself, mostly solid instead of fog, when he was in the hospital room with Mike. When he could sit beside him and touch his hand, listen to his calm and steady breathing, lay his head on the thin blankets next to him, and pray.

John had never been much of a praying man. He'd been born and raised Methodist, but as he grew older, drifted away. Aside from his family dragging him to a Christmas Eve service every couple of years, he never stepped foot in a church. He still considered himself a Christian… just not a very active one.

And yet here he was… both hands clasped around Mike's, praying to a god he hadn't even considered in years. Praying feverishly, as a matter of fact. With his eyes closed, with his forehead pressed against Mike's fingers, with his whole heart, he prayed.

Eventually, he would go back to his hotel and did not so much fall asleep as pass out from stress and exhaustion. His dreams seemed more real than waking life did… waking life outside of Mike, that was. He dreamed the same thing over and over again. In his dreams, he waited for Mike to get out of the meeting. They walked together to Mike's car. They went to the bar.

Every morning he would wake up after this dream, and reach over to the other side of the bed for his lover… only for his hand to land on cold sheets. He was alone. He had not waited. Mike was in the hospital.

Mike was in a coma.

As each day passed without change – save for the gradual healing of his more superficial wounds – John's guilt grew. This was his fault. If anything happened to Mike, it would be his fault. He had not committed the beating, true, but he might as well have done it himself. If he had waited – if he had stayed – he could have prevented it. He could have prevented it.

The local police questioned him a few days after it happened, to see if he knew anything. Since Mike still had his wallet on him, with all of his money in it, it was obvious he hadn't been mugged. It had to be personally motivated. They asked John all the clichéd questions: Did he have any enemies? Had he angered someone recently? Had he done anything illegal, gotten into some trouble somehow? John answered their questions honestly, feeling like he was behind a triple-paned window, their voices reaching him at a great distance.

No, Mike had no enemies. He annoyed people sometimes – well, a lot of the time actually – but he was sure no one wished the man actual, physical harm. No, Mike hadn't angered anyone as far as he knew. No, Mike hadn't done anything illegal. As far as he knew. He hadn't pissed off the mob. There was no cause for this.

One of the cops showed a remarkable degree of intuition.

"Did anyone know he was gay?"

That question blew out some of the fogginess he was feeling. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the officer how on earth he knew. Then he looked at the comatose man on the bed, coupled with his haggard appearance, and figured it probably didn't take a Sherlock-ian deductive leap to figure it out.

"A few people. Not many. We were… keeping it low-key. His family… my family… some people we worked with."

"Keeping that in mind… this looks like a hate crime."

The police left, unable to reassure John that the man (or men) responsible would be caught and put to justice.

A hate crime.

Someone – some random person, who had never met Mike, never seen him before that moment when he was walking alone through a dark parking garage fell upon him and beat him very nearly to death.

If it was indeed a hate crime, John thought the hate came from within his own soul. Because if he ever met the low, cowardly, sonofabitch who did this, he would tear his fucking throat out.

With his bare hands.

Perhaps he had lied to the police when he said they were keeping it low-key. If no one knew before, anyone who visited the hospital room surely knew now. It seemed like everyone ever employed by the WWE visited Mike at least once. John Morrison, looking drawn, had stayed for nearly an hour, recounting inside jokes and episodes of the Dirt Sheet. A gaggle of Divas, bringing teddy bears and leaving softly perfumed cheek-kisses. Cody and Ted and shown up, empty handed, but determined to do the right thing. They had both looked with pitying eyes at John and murmured their condolences.

Vince himself had shown up, promising a raise and a title shot. John had somehow found a small smile within himself at the big boss's words. "When he wakes up, that'll be the only thing he'll remember… and he'll never let you forget," John had said. They had shared a chuckle in that bleak room, with the beeps and the whooshes and the neverending monotony of machine-regulated life.

Randy had shown up once, more concerned with how John was handling everything than with the sick man in the room. At one time, John would have welcomed Randy, would have leaned on him like crutch, and used his strength when he had none left. Randy had been his oldest friend.

But not anymore.

When Randy saw that John, while weak and weary, was unable or unwilling to let down his guard, he had left.

But it was the same every day. Wake up; feel the sheets; struggle against the despair and the hopelessness. Shower. Eat, although food had no taste, and his appetite was nonexistent. Drive (or have someone drive him; as the week progressed he felt increasingly uncomfortable with driving) to the hospital. Sit next to Mike and struggle with his tears, struggle with God, struggle. Greet any visitors that may show up, and there were always quite a few. That was gratifying. He hoped Mike knew all these people were here for him, pulling for him.

Then it would be go back to the hotel, stare at the walls, stare at the ceiling before passing out and doing the same thing the next day.

He spoke with the doctors, with the nurses, and they told him the same thing every day. No change. They'd taken him off of the drugs keeping him in a coma, and they were just waiting for him to wake up. Soon, they promised him. Soon. Soon. His wounds were healing, no long term effects, he could go back to wrestling soon, as long as there was no brain damage. Soon.

The doctors were optimistic, but they could afford to be optimistic.

A week to the day, and there was still no sign of consciousness. The doctors said there didn't need to be. They reassured John every day. He'll wake up, they said. But behind their eyes he could see the concern they held, concern for him, concern for potential brain damage, he could not say.

For once, he did not sit and stare down at Mike's face, bearing only the faintest traces of his beating. Yellow bruises like smudges of paint were the only hints. Angry red scars and stitches like traintracks were crisscrossed on other portions of the man's body, but his face had been relatively unscathed. Save the bandage on his head, but the doctors claimed that could be removed soon.

Soon.

He stared out the window. It was raining. Rivulets dripped down, down, down the pebbled glass. It had been a week. He could remember the last words they had spoken.

_Nah, go on ahead._

_You sure?_

_No worries, I don't want you to wait up for me._

_Okay… see you at the bar._

A quick peck and they had gone their separate ways. He wished now more than anything he had told the younger man he loved him. Mike knew, he was sure he knew, but he wished he'd said it anyway. God only knew how many times he'd whispered it at bedside in the past week. Whispered into their joined hands, the tear damp hospital blankets, directly into Mike's comatose and unhearing ears.

The rain dripped down, down, down. Like the glass was crying. Like it had seen too much pain and death and was fearing for more of the same. Not now. Not in this room.

A sudden increase in the mechanical beeps recording Mike's heartbeat caused John's own heart to leap into his throat. He whirled around and stared at the man in the bed.

The world seemed to settle in his head, settled around him with a nearly audible thunk.

Mike's eyes were open.

"Mike, oh my god, Mike, talk to me baby, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

John rushed over, knocking the cheap plastic chair to the ground with a clatter. He didn't need it. He'd crawl into that bed if he had to. Mike's head turned towards him, eyes bright and aware. Smiling and crying, he reached out for the other man's hand, then his face.

Mike twitched away from John's reaching fingers, eyes darkening in confusion.

The now conscious man opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Clearing his throat, he tried again. His brow furrowed in frustration when nothing more than a dry husky whisper emerged.

A nurse rushed into the room, drawn by the change in Mike's vitals. She pulled the chair away from the bed and righted it before curling her comparatively small hand around John's forearm.

"Could you move, please? And take the chair with you?"

With numb hands, John moved the chair closer to the wall and settled heavily into it, hearing it squeak under his weight. His hands were clasped tightly, but he could still feel them shaking, the tremble moving all the way up his forearms. Awake. Mike was awake.

A tickling on his face alerted him to the fact he was still crying. John quickly swiped his arm over his eyes and attempted to get himself together. He watched the nurse check over Mike, making sure he was – physically, at least – still okay. But his mind, how was his _head_, god damn it?

"Can you talk?" John jerked his head over the nurse, expecting that she was directing this question to him, but her gaze was fixed firmly on Mike. The man in question shook his head slightly, looking frustrated. A small smile surfaced on John's lips; that would definitely _have_ to be frustrating for Mike, the man never could shut up.

The nurse reached over for the carafe sitting on the nightstand; it was easier to just fill it up at the drinking fountain down the hall and leave it in the room than have to walk away every time he got thirsty. She filled a plastic cup three quarters full with the cool liquid and adjusted the bed so that Mike was sitting up. He reached up weakly to grasp the cup, but the nurse shook her head firmly.

"It's better if I do it," she said gently. "Don't want you to spill."

Although not looking very pleased about being coddled, he was resigned to the treatment and allowed the nurse to tip the glass to his lips.

This must be driving him crazy, John thought distantly. He can't talk, can't do anything for himself….

The nurse set the now empty glass back on the nightstand.

"How do you feel?"

After a moment he croaked out, "Okay. Head hurts."

She smiled. "That's no surprise. You're lucky. You must have a very hard head to get off as lightly as you did."

"Oh, he does," John interjected into the conversation, causing the nurse to smile kindly at him, and Mike to glance in his direction, confusion etched in his features.

"What happened?" Mike asked hoarsely, looking back and forth from the nurse to John.

The nurse elected not to be the one to explain what happened, and diplomatically avoided the question.

"I'm going to page your doctor, all right? He'll answer your questions."

Mike nodded, and watched the woman cross the floor and exit the room.

They were alone.

Moving slowly, John stood up and walked over to Mike, who was watching him warily. Remembering his earlier aversion to being touched, he merely stood at bedside and looked down at him, trying to keep the tears from welling up.

"You scared… the shit out of me, man. Are you okay? _Really_ okay, or just trying to be tough for the lady?"

Mike didn't answer right away, just stared at John. John, who had barely slept, barely eaten, who was drawn and haggard and exhausted and guilt-ridden and smeared with tears.

"Mike?"

"Who… _are_ you?" he rasped.


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: Just want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review this. Every comment I get makes me happy, and makes me want to write more. I attacked this thing with about 4000+ words today, so expect another part pretty soon. Please enjoy!

Two doctors and the nurse were huddled around Miz, talking to him, asking him questions, going over him with a fine-tooth comb, diagnostically speaking. Sometimes a doctor or the nurse blocked Miz from view, but only briefly. He was propped up in bed, in a comfortable seated position. His eyes were open, awake, aware, looking brightly from each doctor to the next as the questioned him, poked him, drew blood, and spoke to him reassuringly.

John had been delegated to across the room, watching the proceedings, still sitting in the molded plastic chair. His hands were clasped together tightly, pressed to his lips as he took deep, deep breaths of the antiseptic hospital air. Words and acronyms floated through the air. PTA. TBI. GCS. LOC. Retrograde. Anterograde. None of it mattered. He couldn't take his eyes off Mike, even when the nurse or doctor blocked his view. Watched him as he turned his head to meet the eyes of each person speaking to him, met John's eyes as he looked across the room with mild confusion. _Who are you, _his eyes seemed to say. _Who are you, how do I know you, why are you here?_

Nothing else. No recognition, no love, no kindness. Merely a detached, curious puzzlement. The love, the joy that he had seen in Mike's eyes each and every day was gone. Completely gone. He might as well have been a complete stranger to the younger man. Hell, he _was_ a complete stranger to Mike.

Eventually the nurse and one of the doctors exited the room, leaving the last doctor – Dr. Havelock – looking compassionately at John.

"Why don't we go outside, I'm sure Mr. Mizanin needs his rest." John stood up without speaking. He'd been sleeping for a week; the last thing he needed was rest. He wanted to argue that Mike needed him _there_, but suddenly, he wasn't so sure what Mike needed anymore. He needed to be there for himself, but to Mike… he was a stranger.

John followed Dr. Havelock out the door, feeling Mike's eyes on him as he left. He didn't look behind him. The doctor led him to the small sitting area they had gone to when Mike had first arrived at the hospital. John sat heavily in one chair, the doctor sat a moment later in the chair to his right.

"Obviously you're aware of the fact that Mike is suffering from extreme memory loss, amnesia. Because this particular case was caused by a head injury, it's known as post-traumatic amnesia, amnesia with a physical cause. Most people who suffer from post-traumatic amnesia regain their memories within 24 hours. Depending on the type of amnesia – retrograde or anterograde – he may not be able to recall the incidents leading up to the injury, or have a hard time forming new memories now that he's awake. We're going to run some tests on him to check the extent of the damage and make sure the amnesia is his only issue at this point. Do you understand?"

John let the doctor's words sink into his mind; it made sense. After all, he had seen the Bourne Identity. With Mike, as a matter of fact.

"I… think so. You say he'll regain his memory in a day or so?"

"Most patients suffering from retrograde PTA get their full memory back within 24 hours, yes."

"Most?" John felt a slight chill work its way up his spine.

"I don't want to alarm you. Some patients need a couple of extra days. Some – and this is very, very rare – never regain their memories at all. But I have no reason to believe that Mr. Mizanin will have anything other than an average case."

"All right. You said you were running some tests?"

"Standard procedure. There's a memory test we'll give him, a blood test, we'll schedule him for an MRI… he'll be a busy man for the rest of the day. You should probably go home, get some rest."

"I should call his family, actually. If… if he asks for me, will you call me? Any time… it doesn't matter."

"I will. Don't worry, Mr. Cena… he'll be okay."

They both stood and John offered the doctor his hand. A brief handshake and the doctor was down the hall, back towards Mike's room. John stayed in the waiting area for a few more moments, attempting to gather his thoughts and figure out what to do next. He wasn't ready to leave yet; for all he knew, Mike would remember any minute and he wanted to be there the second he was needed.

He decided to head down to the cafeteria on the first floor and make some calls. On his way to the stairs, he passed Mike's room. Pausing – just to make sure Mike was still okay – he glanced through the small window on the door. Mike was staring out the window, the day's watery grey light running over him. He looked very young… and very alone.

John bit his lip and attempted to swallow the lump suddenly in his throat. Eyes burning, he turned away from the door and walked slowly towards the cafeteria. Down the hall, through the door marked "Stairs", down one bleak grey flight of nondescript stairs, back into the main hallway. To the right, down the hall and into the cafeteria. Smiling faintly and speaking to the few fans who approached him, he signed a few autographs before walking into the cafeteria. Everyone in the WWE universe had been very understanding. They didn't know the full extent of his relationship with the younger wrestler, of course, but they could still understand their friendship and how difficult this was for him. He was indescribably grateful for their discretion.

He sat at a small table in the far back corner, out of view of prying eyes. After surveying the mostly empty cafeteria, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts list.

A half hour later, he'd called his parents, Mike's parents and most of their friends. He repeated about thirty times everything the doctor had told him; retrograde and anterograde amnesia, the average 24 hour time frame of memory return, what tests he was doing. By the time he got off the phone with Vince, the words had ceased to mean anything to him whatsoever.

The myriad food smells in the cafeteria mixed uneasily with each other and the unpleasant sick odor of the hospital. John could feel his stomach roiling, and wondered if it was time to go home. He wanted to be nearby in case Mike needed him, but he'd been running too long on nerves, guilt and cheap coffee.

Maybe it was time to head back to the hotel and regroup. And wait.

He made one last phone call – the cab service.

It had stopped raining by the time he walked outside to wait for his ride, although the day was still overcast, grey clouds undulating across the sky. The air smelled fresh and clean, however, a welcome change from the stuffy, pervasive hospital smell. He took several deep breaths of the cool air, attempting to clear his mind with each one. The doctor's words were a blur in his head; none of them seemed to have any connection with him, with Mike or anything concrete in his life.

The only thing that stuck with him, buried in the very center of his soul, was the way Mike looked at him. He didn't want to think about it, but again and again his mind returned to the look on Mike's face, in his eyes, when he'd asked John who he was. Nothing in his entire life had prepared him for something like that, to have the person in his life he was closest to, the other half of his heart, not know who he was.

It was really no surprise he was in a state of shock.

Eventually the little yellow taxi cab pulled in front of him and idled at the curb, waiting to take him back to his room. The drive back to the hotel was thankfully quick and uneventful. All John wanted to do was take a hot shower and then crawl into bed and not move. Ever. Or until Mike called for him. Nothing short of a large-scale earthquake was moving him out of bed for anything – or anyone – else.

He paid the cab driver and walked slowly to his room, fumbled the keycard out of his pocket and opened the door. It was his intention to grab some clothes out of his suitcase and head directly into the shower, but he only got as far as his bed before the events of the day caught up to him.

His knees gave out and he thumped straight on to the bed, bouncing slightly and making the springs creak in protest. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, although this had no effect whatsoever on blocking the flow of tears. So many tears, John thought tiredly. So much crying, when would it stop? You'd think eventually you'd just… get done crying. If there was truly such a point in grief, he obviously hadn't reached it yet.

A knock at the door startled him out of his misery. He raised his head, swiping the tears off his face as best he could, wondering if the knock would repeat. Maybe it wasn't even at his door; the rooms were fairly close together.

The knock, a little louder. Definitely his door. John sighed quietly; there was no one on this earth he could imagine wanting to see at his door at this point in time. All he wanted was to be left alone to deal with his guilt and his grief. But… not wanting to be rude, he walked over to the door and opened it.

"Randy," he said flatly, and more than a little surprised. Of all the people he could have imagined showing up at his door, Randy was the _last_ person he wanted to see.

The man in question smiled slightly, eyes obscured by sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day. John wasn't sure if he wanted to let Randy in or throw his ass off his doorstep. He compromised; Randy could just stand in the door all day.

"You know… people still recognize you with the sunglasses on. You want to go incognito, wear something that doesn't say "Affliction" on it."

Randy snorted laughter.

"And here I thought you'd be incoherent with depression. Obviously you're doing just fine."

"So to what do I owe the pleasure of your undesired company, _Randal_?" John asked, acid in his tone. He was in really no mood for any of Randy's patented mind games.

"Peace, John," he held up his hands, palms out. "I heard what happened. I just came to see how you were holding up." He paused, and then continued softly. "Even after… everything, I still consider you my friend, all right?"

Maybe he wasn't thinking clearly, the stresses of the whole situation catching up to him, or maybe he'd finally just used up the last ounce of his strength and needed someone – anyone – to lean on. John moved away from the door and allowed Randy to step in.

He took a few steps into the room and then turned around to look at John, pushing his shades to the top of his head. John closed the door softly and kept his gaze lowered. He didn't want Randy to see him like this; weak and desolate. Randy would latch on to that weakness and exploit it for all it was worth. It was just the way he was. But… who else did he have? His family was on the other side of the country, and he'd known Randy longer than anyone, even Mike. Even after all that shit had gone down… and he couldn't do this alone. He had tried… but he was at the last of his strength now.

He met Randy's eyes and watched as the other man's face softened in sympathy, compassion.

"John…" he said quietly, "You can't do this by yourself. I know… I fucked things up between us, but for your own sake, please. I want… to help you… if you'll let me."

John moved to sit on the bed, still not able to meet the other man's eyes. Randy's words moved him, but he didn't trust them. He hunched over with his arms leaning on his knees, head lowered. After a moment, he felt the bed shift as Randy sat next to him, unsure what to do.

"I feel like… I deserve this. It's my fault this happened… so… this is what I get." John said haltingly.

"You didn't do this to him, someone else did. It's not your fault. You can't go blaming yourself for something you didn't do."

"But I should have been there. If I had waited, I could have stopped this, I could have prevented it. I should have waited for him. I should ha—I should have waited." A sob tried to wrench its way out of his throat, but he contained it. Just barely.

Instead of replying, Randy just wrapped his arms around his friend. Nothing he could have said would have made a difference. John was just going to have to work through this guilt in his own head.

At this unexpected comforting gesture, John's tight emotional rein snapped. He covered his face with his hands and cried like a child. Randy could do nothing to subdue this emotional storm; all he could do was sit there and cradle the other man in his arms, occasionally running a hand up and down his back.

Slowly, very slowly, John got himself under control, regained his emotional footing. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and wiped his face, wincing as the rough tissue hit his sore eyes.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to lose it on you."

"Not a problem," Randy smiled reassuringly. He continued to rub small circles into John's back and shoulders.

John smiled back, suddenly feeling better. Not great… but better. Maybe letting Randy in hadn't been such a bad idea.


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: Because I'm a chapter behind on this story here -- those of you reading this also on LiveJournal will have noticed that -- I've decided to just post two new chapters today so everybody's even. No particular warnings for this chapter. Fluff, I guess. Lots of dialogue.

Randy stayed with John, talking quietly to the other man, calming him down for another 45 minutes. John didn't talk much, but drew strength from the other man's soft speech, from his very presence. While he still felt a little unsure about Randy's intentions – surely he was not solely motivated by selfless concern – he was still profoundly grateful for the fact that he was there. John was not sure what he would have done if he was alone.

Eventually Randy seemed to understand that John needed to be alone again, take some time to process, and he got up to leave. John graciously walked him to the door, and before he could check the movement, he reached up and pulled Randy into a quick, hard hug. And, well, if Randy seemed to hold on a bit longer than absolutely necessary, John didn't seem to notice.

After he had gone, John walked slowly to the bathroom, intent on following through with his earlier plan of taking a shower. Maybe a long soak under the hot water would help. He ached; his eyes hurt, his face, his entire being, as if grief and uncertainty and guilt were physically tearing him to pieces. Even with Randy's strength fortifying him, he wasn't going to be able to take much more of this.

He turned on the shower, wrenched the knob fully to the left, and allowed the water to heat up, before stepping inside stall and losing himself – as best as he could – in the steam and the heat.

When he finally emerged, he was so exhausted that walking back across the room to the bed seemed nearly insurmountable, akin to climbing Mount Everest in his underwear, or knocking Big Show over with a single finger. He made the miles-long trek across the carpet and fell into bed. Sleep overcame him almost instantly, and he did not dream.

He was awakened the next morning by the simulated tones of Led Zeppelin cracking through his head and peeling up his eyelids. The phone buzzed across the nightstand where he'd set it the night before, and he grabbed it before it could fall to the floor. Only a quarter of the way awake, he flipped it open and grunted something that vaguely resembled a greeting.

"John Cena?" a businesslike female voice at the other end, and John was wrenched fully awake by an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.

"Yes?"

"A Mike Mizanin has requested to see you."

"Mike? He's asking for me? Is his memory back?" John threw back the blankets, struggling to extricate from the warm cocoon. His mind was fully awake and all accounted for, but his limbs were still most of the way asleep.

"I can't say for sure, Mr. Cena. There's been no change in his condition as far as I'm aware."

"Oh." John couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. God, would this nightmare _ever_ end? He just wanted everything to go back to normal. More than anything, he wanted Mike back. Even if it took the rest of his life – of both their lives – he would spend every waking moment atoning for this. It didn't matter what anyone told him, what Randy told him, his mind told him. His heart told him it was his fault, and he was powerless to disagree.

"So should we let him know you're coming?"

"Yeah… I'll be there within the hour."

John ended the call and for a long moment, all he could do was sit at the edge of the bed and stare at his feet. He literally didn't have the strength to get up. Why would Mike want to see him if he still hadn't regained his memory? Had someone told him what had happened?

Finally he willed himself to his feet, and started getting dressed.

Within the hour, as he'd promised, he was standing outside of room 204, working up the courage to step inside. On the other side of the door was the one person in the entire word to which he was closest, someone who knew him better than anyone in the world, and his stomach was clenched in knots.

No one told him why Mike had asked to see him, and his mind was presenting him with all sorts of unpleasant – although admittedly unlikely – scenarios. Maybe someone had told him what had happened and he wanted to ask John about it. Maybe he wanted to accuse John. Maybe he thought it was John's fault. He knew it was his own guilt getting to him and fucking his perceptions, but the longer he stood in that hallway, the less likely it seemed that this would have any kind positive outcome whatsoever.

Finally he screwed up his courage – the fact that this even took courage made him feel like crying again – and opened the door. He kept his eyes down as he walked towards the bed, afraid of meeting Mike's eyes and seeing only anger, or accusation, marring his beautiful blue eyes.

He sat in the chair placed conveniently at Mike's beside, and slowly, slowly risked a look up. Mike was watching him, eyes bright, wide, aware… but not accusatory. Not angry. A small smile of relief crossed his features, and after a moment, Mike returned the smile.

Not sure exactly how to proceed in this situation, John cleared his throat and decided to stick with small talk. He wanted to reach out and touch him, maybe hold his hand, but he had a feeling Mike wouldn't feel comfortable with that. Instead he clasped his hands together and kept them in his lap.

"How are you feeling?"

Mike raised one shoulder slightly in a little half shrug, the familiar gesture underlining just how crazy this whole situation was.

"I'm okay… I guess," he said a moment later. John was slightly rattled by the change in Mike's speaking. Normally, you asked him the simplest question and he could prattle on for days, sometimes so fast you could only catch one word out of three. However now, he was speaking slowly, almost like speech was an effort. He made a mental note to ask the doctor about that.

John again had to resist the urge to reach out and touch him, tell him everything was going to be okay and they were going to get through this together. Strangers, John reminded himself. To Mike, they were strangers. His hands were starting to ache with the force he was clenching them to keep from reaching out and touching Mike's skin.

"I guess that's to be expected," John said lamely. "But you'll get out of here soon. You… you're strong."

Mike smiled a little, but then quickly lapsed into a somber appearance, and they were silent.

"Why… are you here?" Mike finally asked after a few minutes of silence. John's brow furrowed.

"I thought… they said you asked to see me."

"I did… but I mean… you're always here, you were here when I woke up. Who are you… to me?"

"Oh. Um." John's mind raced. He wasn't sure how Mike was going to react to the knowledge of them being in a relationship. Surely he wouldn't have forgotten so much of himself, of who he was? But if he told Mike they were just friends, he wouldn't believe it. His memory might be temporarily missing, but he was still who he was.

"We're… dating. We've been in a relationship for… a while now." John finally said.

"Oh. Oh!" Mike's eyes were a little wider than normal. "I guess… that makes sense."

"Yeah?" John couldn't help but feel a little amused at Mike's wide-eyed innocent look. It was cute on him; something he had always been completely aware of and used shamelessly on John.

"Yeah. Why you are always here. Why I feel… better… when you're here."

John just nodded, not entirely sure what to say. Mike was looking at him intently, searching him. After a long moment, he sighed and looked down at the bed sheets in his lap.

"I don't remember you," he said softly.

"I know," John replied just as softly, his voice hoarse.

"Did they say why they called you for me?" Mike asked. He was still looking down at the bed.

"No… they didn't. The woman I talked to just said you wanted to see me."

Mike didn't reply for a moment.

"They… no one will tell me what happened to me. The doctor says what's wrong with me, my head, but no one has said why this happened, or how this happened. I ask and they just ignore me. Finally they said I should ask you, that you should be the one to tell me."

His voice started to crack towards the end.

"John… what happened to me?"

Instead of answering right away, he chose to focus on the fact Mike called him by name.

"You remember my name?"

"They told me your name," Mike whispered. "John… please. I need to know what happened."

John took a deep breath and tried to keep the guilt and emotion out of his voice. Without realizing it, he moved his tightly clasped hands to the bed.

"We were going to go out for drinks after a show, but Vince wanted to talk storylines with you. You weren't sure how long you were going to be, so you told me to go ahead without you. And I listened." He paused to get control of his emotions.

"Wait, storylines? Vince? I don't understand."

"Vince McMahon. You're… you're a professional wrestler, Mike."

"I am, really? Like in the WWF?"

"Well, it's the WWE now, but yes." Mike looked like a little kid on Christmas morning, finding a Red Ryder BB gun hidden behind the desk. He'd talked about wanting to be a wrestler since he was a kid, so maybe this was Christmas morning for him, in a way. And maybe talking about wrestling would spark his memory to come back.

"That's really cool. I wanted to be a wrestler since I was a kid." Mike's smile was bright.

"I know, Mike. You've told me. You worked really hard for it. I'm surprised you remember that."  
"I remember some stuff," he said, as the smile slowly faded from his face. "But you were telling me what happened."

"I know. The thing is… we're not really sure. I was waiting for you at the bar when the hospital called me. After saying goodbye to you at the arena, the next time I saw you, you were unconscious and lying in a hospital bed." John paused and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. That was a memory he had no desire to recall, and he expected that it would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. He heard a rustling and watched with no small amount of shock as one of Mike's hands reached out and covered both of his. Mike was looking at him with such understanding and compassion that he had to lower his eyes, lest he completely broke down.

"It's not your fault, John," Mike said quietly. John didn't have the ability to reply to that; all he could do was lean forward and press his forehead lightly to the back of Mike's hand, giving himself a moment to try to compose himself. Hearing Mike absolve him of the blame helped only slightly; after all, he couldn't even remember what had happened.

After a few moments, he was able to raise his head, meet Mike's eyes steadily, and hurriedly finish the rest of the story. Not that he had much more to tell; the rest of it was pure speculation.

"You were found badly beaten and unconscious in the parking garage of the arena. The police are investigating it as a hate crime, but since no one saw anything, they don't really have much to go on. Until you regain your memory… no one will really know what happen. Unless someone steps forward and confesses… which I don't expect will happen."

Mike nodded, looking stricken. He didn't seem to have a response to this. John didn't blame him. He moved a hand to reach out and gently squeeze Mike's. He didn't recoil at the touch, which John took as a good sign.

"Are you okay?" It might have been a stupid question, but it was the only thing John could think of to ask.

"I… I think so. Am I in any danger?"

"No, of course not. Do you feel like you are? Something you remember, maybe?" Suddenly he was worried; this was never something that had occurred to him before.

"No… no. I'm just… scared. Someone did this to me, and I don't know why. If I don't know why… how do I know that… they won't come back to… finish what they started?"

"There's no reason to think that, Mike. That person had no reason to do what they did the first time, much less come back and… and do anything else. And even so, you're perfectly safe here. The doctors and nurses, they're not going to let somebody come in here and hurt you."

Mike looked like he wanted to believe John, but the fear was still evident in his eyes.

"Why don't I… I'll talk to some people and see if we can limit the visitors to people you know."

"I don't know anybody right now."

John was surprised to see a slight smirk on Mike's face. A ghost of his former smartass grin, for sure, but the fact he was even able to make a joke in this kind of situation was more than enough proof that his Mike was still in there somewhere.

"Are you making a joke at my expense?"

"Yes."

John just shook his head, smiling fully for the first time in over a week.

"Then I'll limit it just to friends and family, how's that? I know who you know, and if there's a problem, someone can call me. Okay?"

Mike nodded, looking a little more relaxed.

"I can get on that right now, if you'd like."

He nodded again, more emphatically.

John stood up, and checking his initial impulse to lean down and kiss Mike's forehead – hell, kiss him spang on the lips, why not? – he squeezed the other man's hand again, and left the room.

As he exited the room and turned left, towards the nurse's station, he didn't see Randy coming from the other way, and slide stealthily into Mike's room.


	5. Chapter 5

Notes: And here is chapter five. Everyone is now fully caught up. Warnings for this chapter include a buttload of angst. And Randy Orton's second main appearance. Please enjoy!

Mike turned his head as the door opened, expecting John to walk back in, maybe having forgotten something, but instead a stranger sauntered through the door. He was tall, taller than John, wearing tight jeans and an even tighter shirt. Mike couldn't read the logo, but the huge skull design was somewhat unsettling. The stranger moved slowly, clearly headed for the chair John had just vacated. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, exposing icy blue eyes. The stranger draped himself on the plastic chair and looked at Mike, eyes unreadable. Mike wanted to call out for John or hide under the blanket; there was something about this man that made him uncomfortable.

Then he smiled, a wide, welcoming smile and Mike felt some of his discomfort drain away.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm… um, okay. Who are you?" Mike had learned that the best way to handle new people was just to ask them straight out who they were. This amnesia thing was making for some really awkward moments.

"Randy. We work together. But I guess you don't remember, huh?"

Mike shook his head.

"I understand. I'm sure you'll get your memory back soon. I just saw John leaving. Did he tell you what happened?"

Mike nodded.

The stranger – Randy – chuckled, and Mike couldn't help but smile tentatively in response.

"You're so quiet… that's not the Mike I remember. Couldn't hardly get you to shut up for five minutes."

"It's just… weird. Having strangers talk to me all the time like I know them. I don't want to say something… stupid."

"That's never stopped you before." Randy chuckled again. Despite his imposing looks, he appeared to be an okay sort of guy. Mike smiled a little more easily.

"So… we worked together? You're a wrestler too?"

"Ahh, you remember that. I'm not surprised."

"Well, John told me."

"Yeah, he would. You're pretty proud of yourself for making it."

"He said that too. He's… a good guy."

"He is. He's a real good guy…." Randy trailed off and a shadow seemed to flit over his features. Mike wondered if he'd inadvertently stuck his nose into something personal. This amnesia business _sucked_.

"Randy…? If I said something…" Mike started hesitantly. But Randy seemed to shake off the mood and he smiled, looking once again open and personable and completely friendly.

"Nah, don't worry about it. I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing… but… now that we're on the subject of John…."

"What about John?" Mike suddenly felt worried.

"Did he say… what was going on with you two?"

"Yeah… I guess… we're dating." He couldn't help but smile a little.

"No, not that… the other thing. I don't want to get into anyone's business…." Randy trailed off, looking uncomfortable. Mike felt coldness in the pit of his stomach, a hard pang of fear.

"What other thing?"

"Hey, man, I didn't come here to upset you. I just assumed he would have told you. It's not my place. I'll send him back in here, he can tell you."

"That's what everyone has been saying to me. I'm tired of everyone telling me to ask John. Why don't you just tell me?"

"Are you sure? I don't want to cause anything. I just saw him a few minutes ago, I can go find him."

"I'm sure. I just want somebody to be straight with me for once."

Randy stared hard at Mike for a long moment, and Mike attempted to stare steadily back, hoping to disguise the nervousness he felt threading through him. John had seemed like a good guy, a great guy. He couldn't have been acting when he told his story a few minutes ago. What was going on that John hadn't told him?

Finally Randy shrugged, and leaning forward, began to speak.

"He told you what happened to land you in here, right?"

Mike nodded; he assumed Randy also knew, and if not, well, he wasn't really up to recounting the story either way.

"Did he say why he wasn't there with you?"

Mike nodded again.

"He said I told him to go on ahead. We were going to meet up at a bar. He wanted to wait but I told him to go ahead."

Randy didn't reply right away, just eyed Mike shrewdly.

"What? You're not saying _he _did this to me… are you? He wouldn't… I can't…" Mike's head was spinning. Randy quickly interjected, hoping to calm him down.

"No, man. Of course that's not what I'm saying. He's not like that. What I'm saying is, that's not where he was."

"I… I don't understand."

"He was out with someone else. It was really no secret, Mike. Half the roster – the guys we work with – knew he was stepping out on you."

"John was… seeing someone else?"

"He didn't tell you? Fuck. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I should have let him tell you. He cares about you, man, that's no lie. But he was with this other guy, that's why he wasn't there. He feels guilty as hell about it. I thought he would have told you. He said he was going to, to come clean about it."

Mike couldn't make sense of anything Randy was telling him. John had seemed so broken, so guilt-ridden, that even without his memory, he knew John felt terrible about what happened. But guilt-ridden over what? John had said because he should have been there, but it could have just as easily been guilt over this… this other guy. Why would Randy lie to him? Randy had no reason to lie. Especially now, when he had no recollection of anything and couldn't read a lie when he saw it. No one could be that cruel… could they?

"Why… why are you telling me this now?" Mike whispered.

"I thought you should know who your friends are, and your enemies. You can't tell the difference right now. Somebody has to look out for you. He said he was going to end it with the other guy. But maybe he's changed his mind about that, now… well, never mind. If he hasn't told you, then somebody should."

"Randy, I…"

"I'm sorry, Mike. I didn't come here to upset you. I feel terrible."

"No… no. Thank you for… for being honest with me. I really appreciate it."

"Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to run. I really only came in here for a second just to say hi. Are you going to be okay?

"I'm… not sure."

"I'm really sorry, man. I had no idea. I'll come back later, and we'll talk some more, all right?

"Okay."

Randy patted his arm reassuringly and stood up. He smiled down at Mike, a smile the injured superstar could only return by about half, and then he sauntered across the room and out the door.

For a long while, Mike was left with his thoughts. John seemed honestly broken up about what had happened, had clearly blamed himself for what happened. But… adding in what Randy said, John felt guilty because he was out at the bar with another guy. That Mike hadn't told him to leave, he'd just left of his own volition. To be with some other guy.

Nothing made any sense. John had no reason to lie, but neither did Randy. Who could he believe? They were both the next best things to strangers to him; despite their reassurances they were friends, or dating, who was he to know the difference? For all he knew, both of them hated him and they were playing an elaborate joke on him. He probably wasn't actually a wrestler either.

This amnesia business _sucked_.

Until he got his memory back, he couldn't trust anyone.

At that moment, the door opened, and Mike winced, expecting more bad news. Instead it was just the nurse, Sarah, who had been watching over him since the beginning. He liked her; she was always ready with a smile for him, and he couldn't help but feel a little bit better whenever she showed up.

This time she bustled in with a clipboard, and headed right over to check his vitals. She smiled down at him as she made some notes, but didn't notice right away that he failed – as he usually did – to return her smile. After she finished checking on everything and making her observations, she had a seat in the chair, choosing to visit with Mike for a few minutes.

When she saw his somber expression, she leaned forward and wrapped his hand in both of her small ones.

"What happened? You look terrible."

"Thanks, Sarah. I needed that," he said, favoring her with a crooked smile.

"Well, you know what I mean, sugar. Does this have anything to do with your friend John filling out all that paperwork? He mentioned you were a little worried, and I don't blame you one bit."

"Something like that, I guess."

"You know you can tell me, Mike."

He was silent for a long moment; his head down, his face tilted away, leaving her unable to read the expression on his face.

"I don't know who I can trust anymore," he said softly. Sarah didn't reply, merely squeezed his hand slightly, trying to impart some kind of reassurance. There really wasn't anything she could say.

After a long moment of mutual silence – filled by the various electronica of hospital machinery – she couldn't help but to ask. "Not even John?"

Mike, still looking away from her, just shook his head.

"I think you can. He was here all day every day while you were unconscious… he really cares about you. Anyone could see that. It's obvious you guys are… close."

"I don't know, Sarah… I just… don't know. John… tells me one thing, and then someone else comes along to tell me something different. Who do I believe? How can I tell who's telling the truth? How do I even know I know them? I recognize my family, my parents… but everyone else, they just tell me they know me and I'm supposed to be able to just… trust that? I don't know anything. Not until I can remember everything. I don't even know who did this to me. They could have walked in here, sat right down and looked me in the eye. I would never know."

Mike stopped as the idea bloomed darkly in his mind. He wouldn't know; that was the sickly awful truth. The person – or persons – who had put him in this situation could have sat next to him and chatted about the weather, as sane as the next person. And he wouldn't have a clue. He couldn't stop a shiver from twisting up his spine.

Sarah saw him shiver and squeezed his hand again.

"John is out there right now making sure your visitors are strictly regulated by him, with the help of your family. He only wants to make sure you're safe; you can trust him."

"But I don't _know_ that!" He surprised them both by yelling the words. Heat rose to his cheeks and he ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I didn't mean to yell at you."

She merely patted his hand.

"I understand, sugar. You don't have to apologize for anything. Is there something I could do, then? You're here to get better, and if you're going to be worrying over this, then we've got to do something about it."

Mike sat in the hospital bed, feeling Sarah's thumb trace back and forth over his knuckles, and he thought. He thought about everything he had learned today, everything that had been told to him. Randy's reluctance to speak, John's nearly overwhelming emotional response, even Sarah's observation of the time when he had been unconscious worked through his mind. Eventually he reached a conclusion; it didn't take much thought to figure out what he would have to do.

"No visitors," he said, almost apologetically.

"No visitors? Not even your family?"

"Just for a few days. I need to try to figure some stuff out. After a few days, then probably my family but for now… I just need to be on my own for a while."

"I understand. Do you want me to go set that up now?"

"That would be great, thank you."

She let go of Mike's hand after giving it a final reassuring squeeze, and then stood up.

"Do you also want me to tell John?"

He dropped his eyes down, focusing intently on the blankets. After a moment, he whispered, "…Yeah."

All business again, Sarah grabbed her clipboard from the side of the bed and headed out the door, back to the nurse's station to take care of Mike's request.

He sat there, trying not to think of anything at all, staring blankly at the plain white wall across the room from him. Too much had happened in a short amount of time; he couldn't even begin to process it. The only thing that did make some kind of concrete sense was someone had purposely done this to him. That was the only thing he was sure of. Someone had done this… and he didn't know who. And until he got his memory back… he didn't – couldn't – trust anyone.

A noise from outside the room jerked his thoughts back to the present. It wasn't directly outside in the hallway, more like from some distance; the nurse's station perhaps. Sarah told him it was only a little ways down the hallway from his room.

A second, louder series of noises. Mike tilted his head a bit to the side, listening closely, trying to figure out what was going on. He hadn't noticed his hands had clenched into fists, clutching the blankets so hard his knuckles went white. Adrenaline flooded through his system, but he was so focused on trying to figure out what was going on out there that be barely noticed anything.

He began to hear shouting drifting down the hallway. A man's loud bellowing, occasionally interrupted by a female's higher-pitched tone. Sarah, maybe, but he couldn't tell for sure. With a start, he realized he recognized the man's voice. It was John's. He had only – in his recollection, anyhow – heard John's voice for the first time just that day, and not once risen in anger. But every part of him knew, and there was no arguing with that kind of knowledge. It was John.

As he continued to listen, head still tilted to the side, words began to come clear, phrases, whole sentences.

"What do you _mean_ he doesn't want to see me? He doesn't know what he's talking about! He's not well! Let me go talk to him!"

The female voice responded, but her voice didn't carry down the hall as well as John's did.

"Let me fucking talk to him!"

The female saying something Mike imagined would be along the lines of, "Sir, if you're going to cause a scene, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

A loud clatter echoed down the hallway, like a plastic chair hitting the floor. Heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway, pausing just slightly outside his door… and then continued, growing faint… fainter… gone.

Abruptly Mike put his hands over his face. Something suddenly felt terribly wrong, some part inside of him screaming out that he had made a horrible mistake. The door to his room opened, and he couldn't even muster the strength to look over and see who it was.

Light, nearly silent footsteps crossed the room, and instead of hearing the chair creak as someone settled into it, the mattress next to him dipped down slightly as he was joined on the bed. After a moment, an arm wrapped around his shoulders and he caught a whiff of flowery perfume.

"Sarah," he choked out, his words muffled by his hands. "What have I done? What have I done?"


	6. Chapter 6

Notes: My chapters keep getting longer. I can't figure it out. Anyhow, in this chapter, we have more Randy Orton. We have some booze. We have some swearing. We have... well... you'll see. On an unrelated note, for the love of everything, go read my fic Notion. It's seriously the best thing I've ever written. I know the pairing(s) are a little out there, but just give it a try. And leave a comment. You'll make my day.

John's hotel room look like it had been struck by the proverbial tornado. Since he had returned from the hospital, he had taken out his anger, confusion, frustration, guilt and grief on every available inanimate object in the room. The pillows had gone first, flung to opposing corners of the room, the sheets and coverlet yanked haphazardly to the floor. The drawers on the nightstand and bureau were yanked almost entirely off their tracks, clothes and various sundries heaped over the drawer fronts and sides and strewn about the floor.

The man himself was sitting on the floor, his back against the bed's double mattress. His knees were pulled up, his head down. Clothes and papers were scattered around his feet and partially under his butt, but he didn't notice. His heart was broken. He couldn't even begin to understand why Mike had shut him out so suddenly, seemingly unprovoked. He'd left Mike afraid but smiling, worried but still cracking jokes. At the nurse's station while filling out the paperwork to moderate Mike's visitors, he had marveled over the amazing, wonderful, strong man he was so grateful to have in his life. And then Sarah, the little no-nonsense nurse who had taken Mike under her wing stopped him and told him Mike had requested no visitors. Not his family, not even John himself. He had been stunned.

He had tried to remain calm and asked the nurse if he could speak to Mike about this sudden and unprovoked change in plans. She'd said no. He asked again, drawing all his charm and relying heavily on his dimples. She'd still said no. His tightly held control started to slip, and he could hear himself raising his voice at the young woman and unable to control himself. He begged her to let him see Mike, and when she'd said no again, saying firmly that Mike didn't want to see anyone, even him, he'd snapped. The events of the week, all the stress, and now this on top of it… John had lost it. Before he could get a hold of himself, he'd bellowed at the poor nurse, thrown a chair and very nearly had to be escorted out by security.

When he'd got back to the hotel, he'd thrown the first temper tantrum he had since he was about six and his parents refused to buy him and his brothers a Nintendo. After destroying the room as much as he could without having to actually pay any kind of fine, he'd collapsed to the floor beside the bed in exhaustion. As he wearily surveyed the mess he'd made, he couldn't exactly recall why it had seemed like a good idea. He had done it under the pretense of anger, and it had _felt_ like anger, but it was really only a distraction, a misdirection from the pain and betrayal he was feeling.

It would probably be a good idea to clean up this mess, but he could not find the energy to move. Not even to shift around and find a more comfortable sitting position that didn't involve half his ass being propped up by clothes. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there for, but his ass was starting to go numb. Finally, with a low groan, he stood up. He managed to get to full height before his knees gave out and he thumped down to the mattress. At least he'd moved. It counted, right?

His phone buzzed on the nightstand where he'd left it (and it had somehow survived the destruction subjected to the rest of the room). It had been buzzing constantly since he had left the hospital; no doubt the news about Mike's decision somehow or another getting out and around. He didn't want to talk to anyone about it, didn't want to hear their condolences, phony words of sympathy. None of it mattered. All he wanted was his Mike back. And that couldn't happen soon enough, as far as he was concerned.

He picked up his cell and scrolled through the texts, missed calls and deleted about twenty voicemails. After a few minutes of deliberation, he called Mike's parents and talked to them for about a half hour. They were staying in another nearby hotel, and had called him about an hour earlier – as he was in the middle of trashing his room, truth be told – to ask him about Mike's sudden change in heart. He told them as much as he knew, which pretty much boiled down to the fact he had no idea why Mike didn't want to see anyone, even his own family. They talked for a few more minutes, and then exchanged goodbyes.

Phone still in his hand, John scrolled aimlessly through his contact list, not really intending to call anyone, just fidgeting around. However, when Randy's name was highlighted, he couldn't help but remember the other man's selfless actions the day earlier. Before he could change his mind, he pressed send.

As he listened to the phone burr in his ear, he wondered if this was a good idea. He hadn't called Randy for anything – much less for help – since their little falling out some months earlier. John didn't want to give Randy any reason to worm his way into his life again, he really didn't, but he had no one else to turn to, no one else he felt close enough to. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake. Hopefully Randy was capable of being an adult about this.

Just before he could come to his senses and hang up the phone, Randy answered brusquely.

"Codes, I fuckin' told you, not until tonight—"

"I don't want to know what that's about. I can call later," John said, amused a little in spite of himself.

"Oh shit. You didn't hear that."

"I didn't hear a thing," John promised, wondering what his friend and young Rhodes were up to. On second thought no. No, he wasn't curious _at all._

"So why are you calling, John?"

"I…um… I'm not sure, actually."

"Is it about Mike? I heard the news, man. I'm so sorry. He'll come to his senses soon, I'm sure of it." Randy's voice was soft, much softer than normal, the concern sounded completely genuine. There was no way he was that good of an actor.

"Yeah. Randy, I… everything was okay. He was smiling, even joking around. He said he was scared, so I said I would moderate his visitors. I left, I went to the nurse's station, I started filling out the paperwork. Then, this nurse, this little nurse says he doesn't want any visitors. I told her she was mistaken, Mike just told me he wanted to moderate his visitors. And she just… shakes her head. He doesn't want to see anyone. Not even me. I don't understand."

"John, everything is going to be okay. I'm sure there's a reason for this. Mike will get his memory back any day now and everything will go back to normal." Randy paused, listening to John's uneven breathing on the other end of the phone. "You at the hotel?"

"Yeah," John muttered.

"I'm coming over."

"You don't have to, I'm—"

"Alone and miserable. You shouldn't be alone right now. I can be there in twenty minutes."  
"Randy—"

"I'm not taking no for an answer. Twenty minutes. Answer your door."

Before John could protest, the dial tone rang in his ear. His lip quirked just the slightest bit, and he surveyed his room. Maybe he'd better tidy up a little. He didn't need Randy seeing this mess and doubting his sanity.

Twenty minutes and a tidier room later, there was a knock on his hotel room door. John cracked it open to see Randy standing there, a fifth of Jack Daniels dangling casually in one hand.

"Is the booze really necessary, Orton?" John asked, stepping back and allowing the taller man to enter the room.

"Yes, it is. You can't just wallow forever. It'll take the edge off."

"I don't know about this."

"Trust me. You need this."

John took the whiskey from Randy, shaking his head. He'd have a glass, just for camaraderie's sake. But he was not about to get stinking drunk on Jack Daniels while his lover lay across town in a hospital bed. That would not help this situation at all.

"The ice machine is down the hall," John gestured to the little plastic bucket sitting on top of the television, where he'd put it after retrieving it from the tub, where it had been thrown. Randy nodded and grabbed the bucket, leaving John alone for the time being. He looked at the bottle of Jack still in his hands. Leave it to Randy, the man thought alcohol solved everything. And yet there he was, married with a kid, and apparently still screwing around on the side.

Before John could put too much thought into this, Randy returned with a full ice bucket and smirk on his face.

"Glasses?"

"Bathroom."

Randy disappeared into the bathroom and emerged momentarily, shucking the plastic wrap from two glasses, dropping the cellophane unceremoniously on the bureau as he passed. He crossed the room and handed one of the glasses to John, then plopped down across from him on the other twin bed. He fished some ice cubes out of the bucket, dropped them in his glass and after a moment John did the same. Randy poured each of them a healthy dose of whiskey, and then clinked the rim of his glass against John's.

"May you always come more than you go," Randy said cheerfully. John snorted in response.

"I can't believe you still say that."

"What can I say, it's an old classic." John just shook his head and downed a few swallows of the amber liquid, warmth spreading through him almost immediately. Randy's empty glass slammed back onto the nightstand between them, rattling the ice cubes. He raised an eyebrow at John, who continued to merely sip his liquor.

"When did you become such a pussy?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Randy pointed at the glass in John's hand.

"A real man does not _sip_ Jack Daniels. Chug it, son."

"I don't want to get drunk. And I am _not_ your son. It would be physically impossible for me to be your son, seeing as I am four years older than you."

"In any case, I will not sit here and watch you drink like a girl."

"Getting drunk is not going to solve anything, Randy."  
"It'll make you feel better."

"Until I wake up hungover tomorrow morning."

"So?"

"Randy—"

"John, I'm just trying to help you out, get you to relax for a while. You've been a mess ever since this happened. You can't keep blaming yourself for what happened to Mike. You'll be a mess. You're already on the verge of a breakdown, I can see it on your face. If… when Mike gets his memory back, you'll be no good to him if you're crashed out in some psych ward somewhere because you were overwrought with guilt over something you had no control over. And I'm not trying to get you drunk. I'm just trying to get you to relax."

John was silent, thinking about his friend's words. He had a point; if this afternoon was any indication, he was already breaking down. For Mike's sake, as well as his own, he could use a little relaxation. Maybe a glass or two, surely not enough to get wasted, might actually be beneficial. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he downed the rest of the whiskey from his glass, dropping it back to the nightstand with a clunk.

"Good man!" Randy smiled and refilled both their glasses.

Several glasses later – John lost count, but the bottle was closer to empty than to full – he was feeling just fine. A nagging, echo-y voice in the back of his head was telling him that this was wrong and he shouldn't be trying to drink his problems away. The rest of him was feeling warm and numb and dizzy, and about to proclaim Randy Orton a savior from the mountaintops to anyone who would listen.

"Thanks Randy, you were so right, I really needed this."  
"I know. I told you so."

"No, but Randy, I mean—"

"I know. You've already told me about ten times. I think you're drunk."

"Nah, I'm not drunk."

"If you say so."  
"I do say so."

"I have to piss."

"Too much information, Orton."

"You're welcome."

With that, Randy stretched his long form off the bed and sauntered slowly – and perhaps a trifle unsteadily – to the bathroom.

John watched him as he passed, and then stared blankly ahead, trying not to think about anything in particular. The events of the past week tried to push their way to the forefront of his mind but he ignored them, focusing instead on trivialities, such as why he was having such a hard time focusing on the wall opposite him.

The mattress shifted near John's right hip and he turned sharply in that direction. Randy had settled down beside him, smirking at him.

"Hi Randy. What are you doing over here?"

The other man didn't respond, merely locked eyes with John, still smirking slightly.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" John felt his eyebrows draw closer together. Something about this felt weird.

"Like what?"

"Like… that. I don't know. It's weird."

"You're just paranoid, John. Hand me my glass, would ya?"

John reached out and carefully closed his hand around Randy's half full glass of whiskey and partially melted ice. As he turned to pass the glass to the man beside him, two strong hands descended onto his shoulders, squeezing gently. Startled by the unexpected touch, John jerked away, causing the half-full glass of liquor to slosh over the rim. Jack Daniels splattered the floor, the bedcovers and dripped down the back of John's hand and fingers.

"Jesus, Orton, what was that?" John said loudly, cupping his hand so as not to drip any additional booze on the floor. Randy had the good grace to look vaguely sheepish.

"Sorry. You looked tense."

"Yeah, well…" John trailed off as he struggled to stand up, looking around for something to clean up the mess, still holding one hand below the other in an attempt to catch wayward drips.

"What the hell are you doing?" Randy raised an amused eyebrow at the display.

"I gotta clean this up… towels're in the bathroom, right? Yeah."

John finally wobbled to his feet, but Randy curled his fingers into a back pocket of the man's jeans and with a sharp tug pulled him off balance and back to the bed.

"Hey man… what gives?"

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Give me. Your hand."

Randy was staring intently at him, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, reaching one of his own hands towards John. As John numbly reached out with one alcohol-sticky hand, strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled him closer, nearly unbalancing him. Blue-grey eyes pinned him with an intense stare and John felt his jaw drop open as he watched Randy dip his head, and with broad, tingly swipes of his tongue, began to clean John's hand and fingers of whiskey.

John watched wide-eyed and unbelieving as that sinful mouth wrapped around his fingers and leisurely sucked the liquor away, tongue curling around his fingertips, into the spaces between his fingers.

"Randy…" John breathed, as he tugged his hand away from the other man's ministrations. He rubbed his hand unconsciously on the leg of his jeans, before catching his breath and continuing his sentence. "That is so fucking cliché. Does that really work on other people?"

"It worked on Cody," Randy replied with a sly smirk.

"TMI. But I'm not surprised."

"Should I change tactics, then?"

"Or you could just leave."

"I don't think you want me to leave, John. Listen… you're lonely. You're miserable. I just want to help you… make you feel a little better. Make you forget your pain for a little while. Is that such a bad thing? Come on. You know how good I can make you feel."

As he spoke, he leaned closer and closer to John, his voice dropping into lower registers, nearly a growl. At that last, the words were little more than a whisper dropped huskily into John's ear, lips brushing soft skin.

"Randy, don't do this…." John nearly groaned, his eyes shut. Randy's only response was to dip his head down, grazing his teeth along the side of the other man's neck. He inhaled sharply, tilting his head just slightly to the side.

"Randy. Stop." He tried to sound firm, reached up to push him away but instead found himself sinking his blunt nails into the other man's shoulders as Randy continued assaulting John's sensitive skin.

Before he realized what was going on, John found himself sprawled on his back, Randy's weight pressing him into the mattress. He struggled to sit up, but the combination of whiskey and Orton was too much to overcome. Heat was coursing through his body in slow waves as skilled fingers slid under his t-shirt, warm palms ghosted over his chest and down his stomach, fingertips dipped teasingly below the waistband of his jeans.

John could not find the will to protest. Not as Randy tugged his shirt off, not as Randy traced a meandering, slippery trail with his tongue and teeth and lips from shoulder to waist, not even as he popped the button on John's jeans.

In the split second between the unbuttoning and the unzipping of his jeans, a memory rose to his mind, all unbidden.

_Mike, lying beneath him, bare and slick with sweat. His eyes wide and sapphire in the dark room, his breath coming in quick, soft pants. He reaches out and touches John's face with trembling fingers._

"_John… don't hurt me."_

"_Do you trust me?"_

"_Yes."_

John's eyes flew open, and with all the force he could muster, push Randy up and off of him. Startled by the sudden movement, Randy slipped backwards and stumbled to the floor, landing with an undignified thump on his butt.

"John, what the fuck?"

"Get the fuck out of here. I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull—"

"I was trying to make you feel better—"

"You were trying to get me drunk and get into my pants!"

"…So?"

"How could you? How _could_ you? You've seen what I've gone through this past week, you've been there. I thought you were my friend. I trusted you. I _trusted _you. Even though I knew I shouldn't have."

"John, I—"

"No. I don't want to hear any of your excuses. Get out. I don't ever want to see you again. Stay away from me. And stay away from Mike."

"John—"

"Get OUT."

Randy took the hint and slunk out the door, having the temerity to look wounded about the whole thing. With a heavy sigh, John ran a hand over his face, feeling flushed and furious and disgusted. He'd known better, that was the thing. And he'd ignored his gut feelings, looking for comfort even as everything within him told him not to.

He tugged his shirt back on and fixed his pants with trembling hands. As he stood up, intending to lock the door, his stomach lurched. Instead of going for the door, he ran for the bathroom, barely making it as everything he'd eaten in the last two days made a repeat appearance, retching until his stomach muscles felt sprung and there was nothing left but shame and disgust.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes: Holy shit, guys. Hi. Do you even still remember this fic? I hope so, because I've had a lot of people asking me if I was ever going to finish it. And, well, I still can't promise I'll FINISH it, but it's clearly not in my dead fic folder yet, either. This chapter deals with John's past, so Miz isn't really in it, and I'm sorry for that. If I get to the NEXT chapter, he'll be in that one. For anyone who even reads this after all this time, thank you so much and I am so grateful for your patience. Thank you so, so, so much for waiting. You guys are the best. **

Although the retching had ceased some time back, John couldn't muster the energy to move, even to crawl back to bed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been leaning on the toilet; between the booze and his despair, his sense of time was incredibly warped. It might have been fifteen minutes or it might have been three hours. He had no way of knowing.

Eventually he pulled himself up, flushing the toilet once more for good measure, and rinsed out his mouth with water held in cupped hands. Orton – his stomach flopped and he paused at the sink, wondering if even the thought of Randy would be enough to make him sick, but after a moment it settled – had used both the glasses provided by the hotel.

The main room smelled like booze and sweat and anger. John thought about maybe opening a window, but instead just cranked the air and called it good. He collapsed into bed without ever having opened his eyes more than halfway. His stomach trembled again as he inhaled the scent of Orton on his sheets, but he was so exhausted he dropped down into sleep only a few minutes later.

_John leaned forward, feeling nothing but the pleasant stretch and burn in his thighs, the rough canvas under his palms. The shouts and catcalls of the other wrestlers echoed around the room and he couldn't help but smile to himself. He'd been in OVW three months and he was living the dream. Thousands wouldn't be so lucky. Even with the sleepless nights and the grueling schedule, he still awoke every morning with a smile on his face, a smile that lasted until he laid his head on his pillow at night. Jim would be moving him to the WWE proper within the year, if his training went well, and by God, John would train his ass off, if that's what it took._

_ He switched to his other leg, wincing at the tightness, but never lost the smile on his face. Every bump, bruise, twinge, ache and pain was worth it. He was going to make it. He was going to headline Wrestlemania someday. _

_ From across the room, Jim shouted his name, his voice cutting through the ambient noise like a shot. John stood up, moving easily with the bouncing canvas, and Jim beckoned him over to the other side of the room, where he was standing with a tall young man._

_ There was something familiar about him, John thought as he headed towards the pair, though whatever it was hung just out of reach. He'd seen the kid around a time or two in the past week, not much more than a glimpse as he walked from one place to another; he was hard to miss, with his incredible physique and the confidence that went with it. A person would have to be blind. _

_ "Hey, Jim. What's up?" he asked as he reached the trainer. _

_ "Got a new guy here for ya. You guys'll be working an angle together for a while. He's—"_

_ "Randy Orton," the man himself interjected, smiling a cool smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and reaching out a hand, long fingers wrapping around John's in a sure grip. John returned it, and then the familiarity occurred to him._

_ "Orton? Any relation to Bob Orton?"_

_ "My father," he said, his gaze cooling by twenty degrees and his smile becoming hard, as if daring John to say something. John smiled back, a little unnerved by Randy's cold gaze; the way he was staring at him was almost… predatory._

_ Someone yelled for Jim from the office, and with a hearty clap to both men's shoulders, he hurried off to take a phone call. _

_ "So…" John started, as they watched their fearless leader walk off. "I guess we'll be working together for a while."_

_ "It appears so," Randy said, his eyes never losing that challenging edge. John decided he didn't like this kid looking at him like a snake or something sizing up its next meal, and set his jaw. He wasn't about to lose his place in the WWE for some kid who clearly thought he was the next world heavyweight champion just because his daddy was Cowboy Bob._

_ "Why don't we get in the ring and you show me what you've got."_

_ Randy's smile only widened one extra degree at the challenge in John's voice._

_ "My pleasure."_

_ Within fifteen minutes, John decided he may have bit off more than he could chew with this new kid. Orton was good, Orton was fast. Within thirty minutes, John also decided that it didn't matter who his father was, he was getting in the WWE regardless, and probably had a long and very prestigious career ahead of him. Within an hour, John was exhausted. Randy had barely broken a sweat and was only breathing a tinge harder than normal._

_ "Damn, kid," John said, laughing and panting as he wiped his face with a towel. "That was a hell of a workout!" _

_ Randy just smiled that cool smile, grabbing his own towel from the pile in the locker room and walking back towards the showers. John followed, pausing long enough to grab a pair of boxers from his gym bag, lost in his own thoughts, planning out his future, as he was wont to do. _

_ He stripped and stepped into a shower stall, turning the water on hot as he could stand it, letting it sooth his perpetually sore muscles, relishing the heat and the steam surrounding him._

_ Without warning a cool draft hit him, shoulders to butt, and he turned around, wondering if he'd forgotten to shut the curtain all the way, or if he was about to get ambushed with ice water. He should be thankful that that was as far as the hazing went around here, random practical jokes notwithstanding._

_ Instead of Rico with a glass of ice water, or throwing his clean clothes into the shower, Randy was standing behind him, wearing nothing but that predatory expression, so hard and cold that John wondered for a split second if his tongue might just be forked._

_ Then of course his senses reached him and he reached down and covered himself out of instinct._

_ "Randy what the fuck are you doing in here? Get out!"_

_ Instead of leaving the shower with a flush of embarrassment and a stuttered apology, which would have made all the sense in the world, Randy instead moved closer, pressing his body to John's and a hand over his mouth._

_ "Shut up, John, do you want them to see us in here together? And have to answer all those awkward questions? And then there goes your future, down the drain. Vince wouldn't so much as look at you."_

_ John's eyes widened at the surety in Randy's gaze. He wriggled his hands away from himself, trying to ignore the feel of Orton's abs on the back of his fingers, and finally freed them from between their bodies._

_ "I don't know what you're getting at, Orton," he hissed, pulling Orton's hand off his mouth. "But I don't swing like that, and if you leave right now, I won't tell anyone this happened."_

_ Instead of moving away, Randy just leaned in further, planting his hands on the tile wall behind John's shoulders and bit firmly the curve of John's neck, his tongue darting out to taste the water sliding off his skin._

His tongue is forked…

_"Randy," he said, struggling to keep his breathing even and his voice firm. "You need to stop this, right now." _

_ Randy leaned back to look John square in the face. _

_ "No."_

_ "What!" He made no effort to keep his voice down and Randy pressed his palm over his lips again._

_ "What did I tell you. If they find us in here like this, we're both out of the WWE. Vince might claim to be an equal opportunity employer, but it's really don't ask don't tell all over again, and I'm not going to let that happen again. But…" he paused and slid his tongue over his lower lip. "I've been watching you, and I'm also not going to let you leave this shower until I've tasted you. Now, are you going to let me do what I want, or are you going to bring the whole goddamned roster in here and jeopardize both of our futures?"_

_ As he spoke, the hand not plastered over John's mouth moved from the wall behind him over his body, his long fingers skating over John's abs, sliding drops of water backwards up the inside of his thigh. John squeezed his eyes shut as he felt himself growing hard. He tried to move his hips away from Randy, but there was nowhere for him to go._

_ "Stop struggling, John. I know you want this. I can feel it." Long, sure fingers wrapped around his growing erection and moved slowly. "Stop lying to yourself, stop thinking and just let yourself feel. I can make you feel so good, John. Let me show you."Randy's voice lowered to a husky, intoxicating whisper. "Please… let me show you."_

_ John forced his eyes open, tried to think beyond the pleasure beginning to course in slow, sticky waves through his body. "Randy…" he started, and licked his lips; his mouth felt dry, even standing in the middle of a shower. _

_ "I won't tell anyone," Randy murmured, beginning to move his hand faster, twisting his wrist. "It'll be our secret."_

_ "Oh, God," John moaned, his eyes slamming shut again, his hips moving into Randy's hand of their own accord. He felt Randy press two fingers to his lips and his mouth parted, his tongue slid out to taste them._

_ "But you have to stay quiet," Randy said, sounding a bit out of breath himself. "Can you do that for me, John? Later, I promise I'll fuck you 'til you scream, but right now, you need to stay quiet."_

_ Randy's fingers slid out of mouth and John swallowed a moan. Without warning the talented hand causing such mind-bending pleasure left his cock and John opened his eyes, wondering if Randy's plan was just to get him hard, and leave him high and dry, so to speak, as some kind of horrible practical joke._

_ But no, he opened his eyes with enough time to see Randy moving to his knees, watched wide-eyed and incredulous as he parted his lips and, not breaking eye contact even so much as to blink, sunk his mouth over the head of John's cock. _

_ That was all he saw, as he had to close his eyes almost immediately; Randy's mouth was doing things to him he never even imagined. His last girlfriend hated giving head, and this, oh god, this…_

_ He was just self-aware enough to hear himself moaning, and managed to raise his hand and bite down on the side of his palm. His other hand somehow found its way to the back of Randy's head, and he could feel the wet strands of his hair sliding through his fingers, feel the bob of his head as he took John's cock down his throat, his tongue swirling around the head or lathing the underside, Randy's hand clutching convulsively on his thigh, and oh fuck, those eyes looking up at him, those wide and lidless viper's eyes…._

_ "Randy," he gasped, not noticing the indents he'd left in the side of his hand. "I'm gonna… oh God..."_

_ His other hand fisted unconsciously in the wet strands of Randy's hair and his hips jolted forward as the sharp snap of his orgasm caught him off-guard. He felt the head of his cock hit the back of Randy's throat, and if he minded, he gave no notice. The muscles in this throat rippled around the sensitive flesh and John moaned again, struggling to keep it low. He pumped his hips a few more times lazily against Randy's face and then pulled away, leaning against the cool tile wall and tried to regain his composure. His ears were roaring and he couldn't tell if it was the sound of the blood flying through his veins or the spray of the shower._

_ A moment, or maybe ten, or maybe only a few seconds went by, when he heard Randy moan. John opened his eyes, the lids heavy with exhaustion and satiety, and saw Randy, still on his knees, fisting his own cock in furious motion. _

_ "John…" he moaned again, a little louder, and John had enough time to wonder if maybe Randy was asking him for something, when his free hand grabbed John's thigh, clutching with desperate strength, and John watched hypnotized as Randy shuddered through his own orgasm at his feet. _

_ For a moment, time stood still. John blinked down at Randy's stooped form, drops of water flowing over his heaving shoulders; he was breathing much harder than he had after their go-round in the ring, John noted with distant amusement. Then Randy tilted his head back to look at John, and those icy blue eyes met his again, and all the amusement ran out of John in a hurry. Randy rose to his feet, perhaps a bit unsteadily, and leaned his body into John's, heavy and shower-warm. He kissed John's neck, much gentler this time, and then whispered into his ear, lips brushing the skin._

_ "I'm staying in the Holiday Inn down the street. Room 201. This was just a taste, John. The rest is up to you."_

_ Without even a further backward glance, he'd slid out of the shower stall, much the way he'd gone in, even leaving a blast of cold air in his wake. John leaned against the tile wall, the shower beginning to turn cool, and pressed trembling fingers to the place on his neck Randy had bit him. There was a dull throb of pain and John closed his eyes, wondering if he would bruise._

_ He had gone to the hotel that night. _

John woke with a start some hours later. He looked around blearily, for a moment unable to remember where he was or what was happening. The force of the memory was so strong, for a moment he expected to see the dingy walls of a certain hotel in which he'd spent such an intense – albeit brief - period of time of his life. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and everything began to come back to him.

He made his way through the blurry grey morninglight, remembering how he'd trashed his room in anger the night before, and Randy, showing up and pretending to offer comfort in the guise of Jack Daniels and sex. Thank god he'd puked the night before, or he'd be struggling through one hell of a hangover.

_Randy_, he thought to himself. _Fucking snake._ The thought of Orton made him feel sick and grimy, and he stepped into the shower, lost in his own thoughts and memories.

Their relationship, or consistent fucking, or whatever you wanted to call it, lasted a little over six months during their time in OVW, before Randy was called up to Smackdown. John followed soon after, and while it was clear Randy had no problem with continuing their little tryst in the big-leagues, it was also clear he had no such problems carrying on several similar trysts with other members of the roster.

John called off the affair, or whatever it was, a few months after hitting Smackdown. What he thought would be a simple "Thanks, but I'm out" actually culminated in a screaming fight and Orton putting his fist through the hotel room wall, something that would cost them $200 in extra charges and a request that Mr. Orton tried to avoid all Sleep Inns in the future, if he could.

He was shortly thereafter moved to RAW, and John was able to focus on his career. Mostly.

There had been a few times in the preceding ten years when they had got together for some truly earth-shattering sex; whether because John had just suffered yet another horrible breakup or he was unable to resist those viper's eyes staring at him over the rim of a glass. He had been weak, but as his career flourished, he was able to resist Orton's advances. Orton had stalked on, finding his prey among the younger, greener members of the roster.

And then John had found Mike, and never needed anything – or anyone, Orton included – ever again. There had been no backslides to Orton, not even when Orton showed up in his locker-room after a show one night about six months ago, drunk as a skunk and coming as close as he possibly could to begging John for one more chance. When John had made the mistake of telling Randy he was with someone, the goddamned snake wouldn't relent until John had told him who. Orton's response was to hurl a waterglass across the room, shattering glass shards everywhere but causing no other damage, and then stalking out. As John cleaned up the mess, he had a moment's stab of pity to whoever Randy happened to be currently fucking; that person was going to be in a very sore way tomorrow morning.

John sighed, still lost in his thoughts as he began to clean up the room. He righted everything that had been upset, put his clothes back in the drawers, and put as much back where it had come from as possible. He was tempted to just throw out the two tumblers, drops of whiskey still clinging to the inside, but in the end dropped them on the bathroom counter.

With the room more or less set to rights, he dropped hard on the bed, wondering what he was going to do with himself today. Mike hadn't wanted to see anyone, even him. It had been so odd how that had happened. They had been talking, Mike looked comfortable, relaxed, almost happy, and then fifteen minutes later had requested absolutely no visitors whatsoever. It didn't even make sense. Had he seen something, remembered something in that short timeframe? Was it possible someone had been in to see him?

John pondered this, chewing absently on the side of his thumbnail. Mike had said something, just before he'd gone to fix the visitor's list. The man – or men – who'd hurt him could just stroll right in like any sane person and no one would be the wiser. It could be someone they both knew, both trusted. Maybe Mike was absolutely right, though it hurt John's heart to think Mike couldn't trust him, to think he had to go through all this alone.

The persistent image of the one who'd hurt Mike, just walking right in without anyone giving him a second glance was terrifying. And the more he thought about it, the more he became utterly certain that it had, at some point or another, actually happened. Surely a man – or men – so insane as to jump a man in the dark of a parking garage would have to be unbalanced, and who's to say he wouldn't be so unbalanced as to walk right in the hospital, just to rub everyone's nose in it? To give himself – or themselves, whichever – some smug sense of superiority.

The police were at a dead loss; there had been no fingerprints and the only blood found at the scene was Mike's. Until Mike recalled enough of his memory to identify his attacker – if he ever did – the man (or men!) would simply go about his life, and Mike would be forever jumping over his own shadow, never feeling safe again.

John wondered if there was a way he could see a list of everyone who had been in to see Mike since the accident. Maybe there was something that didn't jive, someone who shouldn't have been there, someone's guilty look he might remember if he saw their name. It was better than sitting in the hotel room, twiddling his thumbs all day and waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen.

With his jaw set in grim determination, he began to get ready for the day.


End file.
